


Fault and Blame

by thedevilchicken



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Tower, Barebacking, Endgame didn't happen, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Getting Together, Lack of Communication, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riding, Sex Pollen, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Scott is dosed with eighty-year-old HYDRA sex pollen. Steve comes to his rescue. This goes about as well as can be expected.
Relationships: Scott Lang/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Fault and Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TiaNaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaNaut/gifts).

Scott absolutely knows why this is happening, and it's pretty much just all his fault. 

Sure, he didn't mean to get caught. It's not like he likes getting knocked unconscious and waking up with a headache the size of Guadalajara (he's pretty sure that's the appropriate scientific measure) and, well, naked as the day he was born. It's not like he asked for it. But that doesn't mean it's not his fault. 

Scott groans. This has absolutely no right to feel so damn good, given how he's overflowing with guilt and shame and all that other really good stuff he'd love to tell his therapist about, if he had one that wasn't just a Russian ex-assassin who sometimes listens to him talk while she makes coffee. Sometimes she makes enough for him, too, and she sits down and nods her head and makes distressed noises when he dumps in enough sugar to bake a goddamn birthday cake, not that letting him loose with the oven would be a smart idea. She tells him he ruins his coffee. He's pretty sure coffee's not all he's ruined. 

Scott groans. Before twenty-one days ago, his ass-related sexual experience really came down to: 1) an old girlfriend who thought spanking him with a rolled up copy of _Rolling Stone_ was seriously sexy (Scott disagreed completely), 2) his high school physics teacher's older son who really seemed to like it when Scott shoved stuff up his butt (his, not Scott's though he'd been kinda tempted to try it), and 3) copious quantities of porn. Before twenty-one days ago, he'd been curious but never actually done the deed, and the guy he eventually did it with seemed like a freaking god to him, even when he stumbled out of his room in the morning with bed head and flannel PJ pants that look like something out of the Waltons. Of course, sure, so he never seems to wear the matching shirt, and wow, shirtless is kinda something else where he's concerned. Even if right now he's naked. He looks great naked, but he'd look great in one of Cassie's old pink ballet tutus and a deerstalker with the flaps down, so there's that. 

Twenty-one days ago, having sex with Steve Rogers was some far-away fantasy, like a winning lottery ticket (which he still buys, even now) or walking on the moon (which...if he called in a couple of favors, chances are he could actually do, so maybe he's kinda lost the point here). But then he got himself caught and Steve came to save him, and, well, the rest is history. Really, really recent history. 

Steve pushes into him. Again. _Again_. And the look on his face is like equal parts concentration and ecstasy, like maybe dicking Scott's as good for him as it is for Scott. Maybe it is, or maybe it's just cathartic, but either way...it's Scott's fault. He knows why Steve's doing this, fucking him, brow furrowed, sweaty, biting his lip, with Scott's legs slung loose around his waist. 

Scott got himself caught. He didn't mean to, because why would he mean to, but when Steve barged through the door all shield and heroism, the bad guys bugged out. Steve should've gone after them and hey, he probably regrets that he didn't. But he asked Scott if he was doing okay and when Scott looked at him, all wide-eyed cartoon dismay, helmet in his hands, Steve said, "Oh no. Please tell me that's not what I think it is." 

It was _exactly_ what he thought it was: a broken vial of weird orange stuff that one of the bad guys had hurled to the storeroom floor when Scott had burst in through the door like maybe he could save the day. He'd seen it puff up in the air like weird-colored dust and okay, maybe taking off his helmet had been pretty dumb, but in his defense he couldn't see. He'd breathed it in. Like an ass, he'd breathed it in, and it'd knocked him straight down on said ass. An ass on his ass. Made sense. And, of course, of _course_, they'd been trying to scope out some old HYDRA facility hidden down under New York, and the stuff had given Scott the hard-on of his not-quite-so-young life. It figured. 

Scott dug his fingers into his thighs. He hissed in a breath. "Okay, how is this not affecting you?" he asked, feeling sick, feeling giddy, feeling like Steve Rogers was the best-looking guy he'd ever seen. Which, to be fair, probably wasn't just the dust speaking. 

"Well, supersoldier," Steve replied, like that explained it all, and Scott guessed it did. He crouched, and Scott sat on his damn hands to keep from touching; Steve did no such thing. He reached out and brushed orange dust from Scott's shoulder. He grimaced. "Look, Scott. How long?" Scott looked at him blankly. "Since you breathed it in. How long?"

Scott shrugged, looked at the non-existent watch at his wrist, scowled, took a breath, then twitched his hand at Steve. He wanted to touch. Never mind Steve was in his suit, he wanted to touch. He shoved his hand back under his thigh instead, but it was a pretty close-run thing. 

"Ten minutes?" he said. 

"Is that a guess?"

Scott grimaced. He screwed his eyes shut, hit his head against the storeroom wall behind him, and nodded tightly. "Yes? Maybe. Sure, probably a guess." 

"So we have maybe thirty minutes." Steve sighed. Scott heard him move and when he looked at him, he was on his knees instead of crouching. Scott jiggled his legs restlessly. Staring at Steve and his ridiculous freaking handsome face, it didn't help. 

"Thirty minutes until what?"

Steve put his hands on Scott's shoulders. Scott flinched, and he felt his face flush hot. Steve had to be able to tell he was hard under his suit, it wasn't like it left a whole lot to the imagination, and Scott wished he could just turn it the frick off or get Steve to look, or get Steve to touch, get Steve to...fuck. Get Steve to fuck? He took a shaky breath. He clenched his fists under his thighs and pressed down on them, like maybe a little pain would help. 

"I've seen this before," Steve said. "In the war. The heart usually fails after forty, forty-five minutes." 

Scott's eyes went wide. "The _heart fails_?"

"It's not what they made it for, but..." Steve squeezed Scott's shoulders again, more tightly. "Look, I know this sounds nuts but you need to have sex." 

Scott clenched his jaw. He bared his teeth then opened his mouth, closed it again, wishing Steve would get the hell away or come closer. Mostly come closer. 

"Actually, I can totally believe that," he said. 

"Are you dating anyone?"

"Am I..."

"Someone I could call. Or take you to. To...you know. Take care of this?"

Scott laughed, and he shook his head. He sounded desperate. He _felt_ desperate. "No. I'm not dating anyone. I pretty much feel like I haven't dated since 1987." 

"Is there someone...like an ex?"

"My ex is on the west coast. With Paxton. I like Paxton. He's a good guy. I mean, if I die of not having sex because I got dosed with eighty-year-old Nazi sex pollen, he'll look after my kid. I'm pretty sure she'll be fine." 

"You're not going to die, Scott." 

"You're sure about that? Because I'm not dating anyone. I mean, I barely even _know_ anyone over here. Except you. And Natasha. And Sam. Why is he not my therapist? I keep talking to Natasha and she looks at me kinda like she's about to dump hot coffee in my lap. And Colonel Rhodes. And the Spider-Kid. I like him. He makes me feel like I've got one foot in the grave already, but hey, I guess maybe I have right now. Badum-tish." 

He mimed drumsticks. Steve caught his wrists and okay, it was over his sleeves and through Steve's gloves, but Scott still shivered. He felt it, bone-deep. _Bone_-deep. Heh. 

"You're not going to die, Scott," he said again. 

"But you're the only one here." 

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I am," he said, which seemed disturbingly meaningful. 

"But you're...you." Scott twisted his wrists in Steve's grasp but he didn't let go. "You're Captain America. You're my hero. You're America's hero. You're perfect." 

Steve frowned. "I'm really not." 

"I mean, you kind of are. You're brave and you're good and, wow, your eyes are really blue. Has anyone ever told you your eyes are really blue? You know, sometimes I think about what it might be like to date you. Like...you. _You_ you. We'd grab coffee, absolutely never go for runs, I wouldn't inhale toxic substances stored in underground bunkers... Y'know, the usual stuff." 

But Steve was already standing himself up. He wasn't listening, which was pretty merciful all things considered. He was pulling his helmet off, and he set it down on a shelf half filled with perished rubber gloves. He pulled off his own gloves and shoved them into his helmet. Then he crouched again and Scott got it, the self-sacrificing jerk was, well, he was trying to sacrifice himself, and yeah, okay, so Scott didn't want to die, and he was babbling like a jackass - what the hell had he even said? - but that didn't mean he wanted Captain America (or Steve, for that matter) to strip off and fuck him. Even if he absolutely did want that. Even if his entire fricking body was screaming for it. Scott wanted it, the dumb orange stuff in his blood made him want it, but no. No. When Steve reached for the front of Scott's suit, he tried to bat his hands away. He wasn't great at it because yeah, supersoldier, but he tried. Sort of. Kinda. 

"Let me help you," Steve said, exasperated. "Jesus, Scott. Let me help you. Do you think I want you to die?"

"No, I'm pretty sure you'd take a bullet to save me. Save anyone. I told you you were perfect." 

Steve raised his brows. "Maybe a small one," he admitted. 

"And you're not interested in me. This is nuts. You don't want to fuck me. When did you screw a guy last, Steve? This lifetime, even? Did he look like me?"

Steve frowned at him. "Kinda, yeah," he said, and wow, there was not enough orange junk in the world for him to process that. "But thats...Scott, that's not what we need to do." 

"What, so it's better if it's just a handjob? Can't I do that myself? If you just get out of here you could maybe pretend you never saw this."

"No, that's..." Steve shrugged. "You have to be on top." 

Scott's eyes went huge. "And you're volunteering for that?"

"Yeah." 

"You'll let me...you know?"

"Yeah." 

"That's..."

"We don't have long." 

And really that was it, that was what it took, just that, not bribery or blackmail, not _what will your daughter do without you?_ not _the team needs you_, not _don't you want to live?_ All it took was the idea that he could have him and Steve was willing. He didn't even think about whether _willing_ meant it was okay, or if he was under duress or any of that stuff. All he did was lurch forward and mash his mouth to Steve's in a weird kind of headbutt of a kiss. It wasn't elegant and it kind of hurt, and it really wasn't the finest moment of Scott's life, but it got the point across. 

"So..." Steve said, when he pulled back. "That's a yes to saving your life?"

Scott made some kind of vague defeated, exasperated, completely lost gesture with both his hands, kinda like a traffic cop chasing away a swarm of bees. It wasn't a yes but it wasn't a no because it wasn't really anything at all - he maybe could've formed words but he had no clue what to say and he probably would've just babbled anyway, about how he'd maybe once been spanked with a copy of TIME with Steve's face on it or just how much porn there was in the world at large that was meant to look like Captain America railing Iron Man except they never really looked like either of them. 

So, Steve took hand-flapping as _yes_, or he took it as _too far gone to say words that form sentences_, and he started tugging off Scott's gloves. Scott was pretty sure he didn't need to do that, and hey, maybe even keeping the gloves on would've helped! Because the next thing he knew he had Steve's thumbs rubbing his palms, and jeez his skin on Scott's skin was like jabbing his finger in an electric outlet or a bolt of fricking lightning. All the hairs on Scott's arms stood on end and his neck tingled and his cock just throbbed. And throbbed. And throbbed. 

He let Steve unclasp his belt and set it aside. He let Steve unzip his jacket - he guessed that made sense, maybe, somehow. Steve seemed to know how to suit all went together, how the jacket connected to the pants, because the next thing Scott knew Steve's hand was down his pants and Scott's eyes were round as goddamn saucers because Steve's fingers absolutely brushed his dick. He could've come just like that, which might've been embarrassing but maybe then he could've curled up and died in peace. 

Steve pulled his hand back. Steve pushed him and pulled him and eventually, somehow, pretty impressively given Scott's woozy-headed, turned-on state, got him up onto his knees. Then Steve shoved Scott's pants down over his hips, exposing him from waist to thigh. His dick sprang free, and Scott groaned as he slumped back on his heels. The cooler air felt great on his too-hot skin, and he knew Steve was looking at him, he could _see_ Steve was looking at him, at least until Scott scrunched up his face and closed his eyes. He kinda thought Steve looked curious. He kinda thought Steve looked flushed. But what the frickety-frack must he have been thinking? _Hey, coo, eighty years in an iceberg, save the world from aliens a couple of times, and what do I get for it? My jackass coworker's dick in my ass_. Or maybe just, _I bet Iron Man wouldn't've taken his helmet off_.

The first thing he knew about Steve touching him was, well, Steve touching him. It took him by surprise because like a jerk he still had his eyes closed and Steve just ran the back of his fingers against the underside of Scott's ridiculous goddamn erection and wow, wow, it was so damn good it almost hurt. He heard himself whimper, honest-to-God whimper, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Steve wrap his fist around him, just the thick, flushed head sticking out past his grip. It was leaking like he was pretty sure it never had in his whole damn life before, clear stuff getting all over Steve's fingers, and jeez, Steve moved his hand away and _licked his finger clean_, Jesus Chris. Scott groaned. God, he'd never been so turned on. It didn't seem natural. He guessed it _wasn't_ natural. 

Then Steve dicked around with his own suit and Scott watched, someplace dangling with his ass hanging out between dumbstruck and just plain awestruck, as Steve knelt there and pushed his own pants down to his knees. He was hard, too, really big and really thick and as rosy fricking red as his blushing cheeks were and while Scott was trying to fight down the urge to just flop down on the floor in front of him and wrap his lips around Steve's dick (he pretty much only succeeded because movement seemed kinda impossible), he guessed it made sense. He'd've liked, he'd've loved, he'd've been goddamn ecstatic to think Steve was hard because he wanted this but Scott was pretty sure no number of friendly chats over breakfast or friendly games of squash in the tower gym (who the hell even plays squash? who the hell plays against _Captain America_?) would've made Steve want to go to bed with him. Maybe his whole supersoldier schtick helped fight off the effects, maybe he wasn't going to die in 20 minutes like Scott was, but it had to be that. 

"Can you move?" Steve asked. 

Scott tried to push up higher on his knees. He failed. He felt weak, lightheaded, his pulse really loud, and his heart was racing, and he shook his head because that was all he had in him. Man, he couldn't even do that right - he was meant to be putting his throbbing damn cock in Steve to save his wn dumb life and he couldn't even do that and when Steve shifted to move him, clenched his jaw determinedly and started easing him down on his back on the concrete floor, Scott got it. Steve straddled his hips, pants pushed down to the top of his boots, awkward but that didn't seem to matter much when Scott's cock was nudging there behind Steve's balls and oh God, he wasn't sure what he was more ashamed of: that this had happened in the first place or that Steve was going to have to ride his cock to save Scott's life. It was a hard choice. 

Steve sat there, kneeling over him, and he rifled through Scott's jacket. There was a little tin of Vaseline tucked in there that Natasha had rolled across the breakfast table to him when he'd been whining about chapped lips, and who the hell even knew how Steve knew to look for it except the fact was he did and he fumbled the lid off. The stuff inside was glossy, a couple of steps closer to a liquid state than it should've been thanks to fricking idiot Scott carrying it around in his inside pocket, but that kinda worked out; Steve shuffled back, and Scott felt the tip of his dick drag against Steve's perineum, drag against his balls, then Steve slicked him with the stuff till his erection shone just like a melting popsicle. Then Steve used a little more, though Scott didn't know how there was any left, and reached his hand behind himself. Steve took a breath. Scott held his, while Steve smiled at the sheer damn absurdity of rubbing Natasha's sacrificial petroleum jelly against his own damn hole. 

He moved after that, shuffled back up and went up higher on his knees and Scott shivered to his bones as Steve wrapped his hand around Scott's cock. He guided it behind him, under him, up between his cheeks, and Scott couldn't move, couldn't tell him no, maybe wouldn't have said it if he could because wow, Steve started pressing down. It felt like he wouldn't fit for a start, like maybe Scott was about to buy the farm because he couldn't even fuck right, let alone investigate a HYDRA bunker without coming down with a really bad case of Spanish fly. But then Steve hissed in a breath and he groaned it back out and he sank down, and the muscle yielded, just enough, and Scott felt the tip of his cock push in. Steve settled back, gripping his own bare thighs, teeth bared, and Scott felt him, hot and slick and tight around him, really tight, like he had just as little experience in that area as Scott had. But he'd seen this before, he'd said, in the war, probably back in the forties long before Scott was a twinkle in his parents' eye, so maybe he'd done it then. Maybe he'd bounced around on the dicks of twelve incapacitated soldiers or the whole damn Howling Commandos or maybe he fucked three guys a week, every week, and Scott had no idea. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

Steve moved, rocked his hips, and slowly he leaned forward. He spread his hands over Scott's chest, over his undershirt but jeez he was warm, and Scott was in him, really deep, he could feel him around him, stretched open around him and wow, fuck, wow, Steve lifted up on his knees so high just the tip of Scott's dick was still in him, and he cupped his balls up higher, and he eased his own cock out of Scott's line of sight so he could look down over his own chest and abs down to his dick inside Steve's ass. He moaned out loud at it, so turned on it felt like his insides cramped, and his fingers twitched as Steve settled back down again. Scott wanted to touch him, get his hand around Steve's cock and stroke him, make it good for him, too, but he couldn't move. And Steve rode him, slowly, sitting back, sitting straight and tall with his fingers pressing white-knuckled to his own inner thighs. All Scott could do was watch, and feel, seeing Steve's hard cock bob in the air with every thrust and it was unbearable, pretty close to completely unbearable, because Scott wanted this so much, Scott wanted _him_, but he hadn't meant it like a wish on the goddamn monkey's paw. 

Eventually, Scott squeezed his eyes shut. His breath was basically just like that one time he'd let Cassie persuade him into yoga class and they all sat there panting like a dog and it was so much, it was too much, it was heat in his blood and sweat on his skin and his muscles twitching and turning tight and Steve didn't stop, he just got faster, and all Scott could think was _wow, that's good_ and _fuck, this is wrong_, and _this is absolutely not why Nat gave me that Vaseline_. And Steve really didn't stop, not when Scott was basically gasping, not when his balls felt tight and when his fists clenched and that was it, that was it, his hips bucked up totally of their own accord and Steve pushed down in response and _that was it_, Scott came inside him in great pulsing waves that damn near knocked him out. He slumped bonelessly on the ground, exhausted. But at least maybe he was going to live. 

If anything, he expected Steve to move away. He expected Steve to dress and leave him there to recover alone because hey, he'd done his part, pollen satisfied, and Scott could find his own way out of the HYDRA warehouse labyrinth and back across town to Stark Tower. But Steve didn't leave. He didn't even move, and when Scott opened his eyes he was still there, straddling his hips, Scott's cock in him. He had his head leaning back and his eyes closed and one hand around his cock, stroking it, hard, pushing the thick tip through a ring made from finger and thumb, squeezing, over and over, He jerked himself as Scott watched, with the top half of his uniform still in place, star on his chest, and Scott was exhausted, sure, but the orange dust seemed like maybe it was wearing off or wearing out and he knew he shouldn't but he slid his bare hands up over Steve's bare thighs. Steve flinched, surprised, but he didn't stop; he just looked at Scott, his face flushed and his chest heaving, as he kept on stroking. Scott squeezed his hips. Scott flexed his own ships and felt his still stiff dick shift in him slightly and apparently that was all Steve needed: he shuddered and he groaned and he pushed down hard on Scott's cock inside him, and he came all over Scott's bare abs. 

After that, Steve pushed up and moved away. After that, he shifted his suit back into place then helped Scott back into his. He was close, close enough to kiss and Scott want to so he guessed the pollen was still in him, and when Steve's fingers patted Scott's messy hair back into place, he shivered. It felt awkward. He felt flushed but cold. And Steve wrapped one arm around Scott's waist to help him walk, Scott's arm around his shoulders, and he smelled great, kinda gross with sweat and come but great. Really great. Cock-stirringly great. He grimaced. 

"Hey, Steve?" he remembers saying, as they made their way toward the door. Steve had explained the dust was inter after a few minutes in the air so that was fine, but...he wasn't fine. "Say, how long does this take to wear off?"

Steve looked at him, really close, _really_ close, as he helped him down the corridor. "A couple more times and you'll be good," he said, and Scott's stomach sank. He really should've checked. 

Back at the tower, some of the others asked them what was wrong, if Scott was okay, because he kinda looked like hammered hell. Scott just smiled weakly as Steve told them all not to worry, he'd be fine. He just needed rest, and privacy. They should all go out bowling or see a movie or fly a Quinjet to Jamaica. They took the hint and left, though Natasha eyed them oddly. Then Steve took Scott to his room. Scott's room, not Steve's. He was pretty sure the other way around would just've been too weird. 

That's where they are now, three weeks later: in Scott's room again. And Scott gets it, he thinks, because it wasn't just another two times that he needed - it was another three. By the end, he was limp like wilted lettuce and a mess of sweat and come and maybe even tears, and Steve had gone along with it. Steve had ridden him again, naked this time, suits both on the floor, Scott's hands at his hips. Steve had let him have him on his hands and knees, from behind, shoving in deep with a slap of skin on skin till they both came. Steve had let him push him down on his back on Scott's bed, let him kiss him, let him kiss him and kiss him till he fumbled his dick down between his cheeks and pushed inside. They did it face to face, breathless and blushing, Steve's cock caught up between them, rubbing at Scott's belly till he came and brought him with him. Honestly, he's not even sure if he really needed it the last time - maybe that's the worst thing about it, more than anything else. Maybe that's actually the worst thing that he's ever done. 

So he gets it, because it was his fault, and Steve really didn't have to help, and letting his idiot coworker fuck him even once was way above the call of duty. They've tried to go back to how it was since then, squash and making lunch together like they're doing an awkward modern dance around the kitchen, training, all that stuff, but what happened that day is always there. Steve's been standing really close, maybe closer than normal or maybe Scott's brain is just making it up because he knows what kissing him feels like. He knows what he looks like naked, he's seen his O face and somehow it's kinda charming. He's pretty sure his own just looks like a lobster closed its claw on his genitalia. 

He gets it. Steve saved his life. Scott did him. Turnabout's only fair play. 

Steve fucks him in long, deep thrusts that make him tingle all the way along his spine, and Scott hauls on the bars in the headboard so his hips pull up higher, so he can take him deeper. Steve groans as he obliges, fucking obscene, better than all the dumbass _Captain America fucks Iron Man!_ not-even-lookalike porn he's ever seen. As he's looking up at Steve - Steve who, God love him manages to look like he wants this - he doesn't even need to touch himself. Steve's big cock in his ass is enough to make him come, and the way his ass pulls really tight around Steve's cock makes him come, too. __

_ _Steve pushes off to the side. He sprawls on his back. He takes a deep breath and he chuckles it out and Scott turns, muttering something about yoga and contortionism, to look at him. _ _

_ _"What's so funny?" Scott asks, really hoping it's not him. _ _

_ _Steve shrugs. "It's just strange how things work out," he says. "HYDRA. You and me." _ _

_ _"That's funny? Were were dosed with creepy HYDRA fuck-or-die viagra." _ _

_ _"Well, you were." _ _

_ _"You weren't?"_ _

_ _Steve frowns. "I told you. Supersoldier," he replies. _ _

_ _Steve turns onto his side. He rests one hand at Scott's bare hip and Scott really, really doesn't complain because the fact is he'll take what he can get, but what Steve's saying...it makes no sense. _ _

_ _"I mean, I know what you said," Scott says, "but then you kinda seemed into it, and I thought that meant..." He trails off. He shrugs awkwardly. _ _

_ _"You thought that meant it was working on me, too." _ _

_ _"Something like that, yeah." Scott frowns. "You mean it wasn't?"_ _

_ _Steve smiles wryly. "No," he says. "It really never was." _ _

_ _"So you..."_ _

_ _"Liked it. Enjoyed it. All of it. I mean, except the part where you nearly died." _ _

_ _"And this?" Scott waves a hand between the two of them. _ _

_ _"Didn't you say you wanted to date me?"_ _

_ _"And _you_ want to date _me_?"_ _

_ _"Isn't that what we've been doing for the past three weeks?"_ _

_ _Scott laughs. He flops onto his back. He rubs his eyes and when he opens them again, Steve's even handsome when he's blurry. _ _

_ _"You're amazing," Scott says. _ _

_ _Steve's frown turns into a teasing smile. "And _perfect_?" he asks. _ _

_ _"Don't push your luck, big guy," Scott replies. "I'm not dying of orange-blue balls now. I've got your number." _ _

_ _And maybe it's still sort of tentative when Scott leans in to kiss him, but Steve doesn't seem to mind. Maybe it's still sort of this-can't-be-real as Scott pushes him down and scoots over on top of him, but Steve seems to kind of like it. He wraps his arms around Scott's waist. He smiles. He really is amazing. _ _

_ _So maybe Scott didn't get it after all. Maybe he was one hundred eighty degrees off course and winging his way in the wrong direction. _ _

_ _But he's never been so damn glad to be wrong._ _


End file.
